


Prima facie

by We_live_in_a_Society



Series: Ars longa, vita brevis. [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blindfolds, Character Development, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future, Maledom/Femsub, Moral Dilemmas, Morality, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Smut, Technology, Transhumanism, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000, Wordcount: Under 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 06:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30101940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society
Summary: People are marred. Damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Ars longa, vita brevis. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080461





	Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?” 

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up. 

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain. 

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions. 

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation. 

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.” 

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…” 

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval. 

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead. 

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether. 

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features. 

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts. 

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course. 

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind. 

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace. 

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome. 

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea. 

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender. 

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?” 

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time. 

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility. 

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?” 

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

**Author's Note:**

> Created: 12/28/20  
> Completed: 03/11/21  
> Edited: 03/17/21


End file.
